Why I Cook

I didn’t grow up in a house where cooking was a particularly meaningful act. We ate. Meals appeared. I don’t have strong memories of kitchens from childhood in the way some people do.

But somewhere in my thirties I found myself caring about it. Not in a performance way. Not the kind that involves a lot of equipment and opinions about knives. Just the quiet version — the thing you do to slow a day down, to mark the end of it, to give people something warm.

I think it’s connected to having children. There is something about preparing food for a small person who is entirely dependent on you that strips away any self-consciousness about cooking. You’re not doing it to impress anyone. You’re doing it because they need to eat and because the act of feeding someone is one of the more direct forms of care available to you.

Penny tells me which nights are her favourite dinners. She has opinions now. Pippa is too small to have opinions but she watches everything that happens in the kitchen with what I can only describe as professional interest.

I cook because it’s one of the things I can give them that isn’t complicated.